Muse

well hey there family if you love old gods of appalachia i want to help us keep the home fires burning but maybe aren't comfortable with the monthly commitment well you can still support us via the acast supporter feature no gift too large no gift too small just click on the link in the show description and you too can toss your tithe in the collection plate feel free to go ahead and do that right about now. Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. Solomon Locke escorted his potential fiancée into the proverbial lion's den, the smaller of Pendaren's two formal dining rooms, reserved for intimate dinner parties and gatherings of Haman Locke's immediate family. A crystal chandelier illuminated oak-paneled walls and floors polished within an inch of their lives. The long, elaborately carved table had been set with service for six and laid with the family's best china, trimmed in silver leaf and decorated with the family crest. Silver candelabra framed an elegant centerpiece of white oleander, lily of the valley and devil's trumpet and cut crystal wine glasses sparkled in the candlelight. It seemed his father had pulled out all the stops. Haman occupied his usual place at the head of the table. Crisp white place cards pinned in the elegant hand of his father's secretary indicated that Solomon and Rachel Harlow had been assigned the two chairs to either side of his father. His uncle Bonaparte was seated in the chair next to Rachel's, with the eldest of Jameson Locke's children, Solomon's aunt Patience, across from him. His grandmother Marlena had taken the chair opposite his father. Solomon suppressed a grimace. In recent weeks, his grandmother had encouraged him to take that seat. It was only appropriate for the lock air, she had argued. Tonight, however, she had staked her claim, an unequivocal proclamation of her power within the family. This evening's dinner would no doubt be just as trying as those that had come before it, but for once, Solomon actually felt invested in its outcome. His grandmother would not get her way this time. He smiled reassuringly at Rachel as he pulled out her chair and then took his own seat. Once the two of them were settled, a member of the kitchen staff emerged from the shadows to fill their glasses with wine. Then his father rose to address the table.

I'd like to thank everyone for joining us this evening, especially in light of the tragedy that has befallen our family. We gather tonight to celebrate the future, but I am afraid we must first take a moment to honor one we have lost. Before we begin the evening's festivities, I'd like to raise a glass to my brother Brutus. While we do not see eye to eye on many things, I hope he finds peace on the far side of the veil. To Brutus.

The five other diners seated around the table raised their glasses. To Brutus. Rachel glanced to her left as a choked sob issued from the tall woman seated beside Solomon. She wore a silk dress in a shade of deepest iron gray and dabbed daintily at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. There was an awkward silence as she calmed herself. Please, excuse me, everyone. Haman lowered himself into his chair, nodding to Bonaparte. Solomon's uncle rose from his seat across from the weeping woman, favoring her with a gentle, if somewhat patronizing, smile. Yes, of course, Patience. We share in this burden, and we all feel our brother's loss in our own ways. Now then, I would like to welcome our very special guest, Miss Rachel Harlow. Miss Harlow, may I introduce my stepmother, Mrs. Marlena Locke, and my elder sister, Patience. Patience met Rachel's eyes briefly, then appeared to dismiss her presence as unimportant, taking a long sip from her wine glass. Solomon's grandmother might have been carved from granite, sitting motionless, her expression impassive, piercing eyes skewering potential prey like talons of cold iron. Seemingly oblivious to the awkward silence that greeted his introduction, Bonaparte continued.

Miss Harlow comes to us from the great city of Louisville and has known our Solomon for many years. She is a dear and loyal friend to my nephew, and I welcome her to our table. Thank you for joining us, Rachel. Rachel dipped her head modestly and made eye contact with each member of the family in turn as she spoke.

It's a pleasure to be here and a privilege to dine in such esteemed company. Thank you all for your hospitality, especially you, Mr. Locke.

Though she meant Bonaparte, as he had been her facilitator and guide, and according to Solomon, would act as her champion on this battlefield, she raised her glass to her host, Solomon's father. Bonaparte had made it clear that while Solomon's grandmother was a deadly opponent, offending his father's vanity could be just as dangerous. Haman raised his glass and inclined his head in satisfaction. As some of you may know, Miss Hollow is partially responsible for returning Solomon to us. She accompanied him on his long journey home using her own considerable gifts to defend him and placing herself between our boy and beings that would have surely taken his life. Why, she even defied Polly Barrow when she attempted to snatch Solomon up, delaying her long enough so that...

Enough of your bladder, Bonaparte. Are you introducing the girl to us or begging to keep astray? Next you'll promise me she won't eat much, and you'll walk her every day. Will you clean up her messes when she inevitably shits on the carpet?

Mother, please.

Spare me your delicate sensibilities, boy. We have all walked the sunless paths and heard the whispers in the dark. Though some of us may have listened more closely than others, eh, girl? All the same, let us drop our masks in here. We are in our home and among our own kin. Let us speak plainly.

Bonaparte and Solomon exchanged a glance. No one else at the table spoke.

Let's get the unpleasantness out of the way first, girl. Your mother. She was a charlatan and a whore.

Solomon stiffened in his seat and turned shocked eyes on the old woman. Grandmother!

Quiet, boy. She knows it's true. She might not know how true, but she knows. Her mother laid with any practitioner that could gather half a coven about him. She didn't have a scrap of faith in the sex she wormed her way into. She just wanted the seed of a dark-touched man to grow this rotten brat in her belly. Helena McCoy was so desperate to get with child, who knows who... what your actual father was.

Now, Mother, while it is true the girl does not know her father, she...

That doesn't concern me as much as the fact that she was stupid enough to continue trusting her mother even after the foul woman twisted her gifts into something so grotesque that the false god she was promised to wouldn't even take her. At some point, one has to say no, even to one's own mother. Can you say it now, child? Can you say it to me? Can you deny these things about your own blood?

Rachel bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She wanted to lash out, to tell this old bitch where she could stick her insinuations and her questions, but could feel Bonaparte's and Solomon's eyes on her. So she said nothing.

I thought not.

Grandmother, please. Am I not the perfect example that someone with an unfortunate upbringing can grow to be worthy of a place at the table?

That has yet to be determined, grandson. As you well know, you would be wise to mind your manners. This one wants to tell me she did stand up to her mother. She wants to lie and say she burned her down to her rotten bones. But that's not exactly true, is it, Miss Harlow? Call her to account and she'll squeal, it was an accident. Oh, I didn't mean to. before you know it. My own mother sought to drown my gifts in scripture and baptism, so I drowned her instead. I didn't need any special gifts or help from the masters. Just a washboard to the back of the head and my own two hands.

Enough, mother. You're laying it on a bit thick, even for you. Rachel shot her host a grateful glance, but Marlena Locke plowed on as if her son hadn't spoken, and obviously on a roll.

Your upbringing aside, girl, what about these last ten years, eh? Why don't you tell us about those three boys in West Virginia? They said one of them looked like he was twice his age and eaten up with some form of cancer. The others had their John Thomases melted off like someone dumped acid in their laps. I'd prefer my...

grandson to marry a woman who will leave him unmaned. Can that poisoned womb of yours even carry a child? Or will you bring forth some abomination that we'll have to put down like a

sick dog? Rachel had heard enough. She was about to unleash the double-edged tongue life had sharpened for her on the old witch, but before she could stand, she heard a soft, familiar keening. The hair rose on the back of her neck She hadn't heard that sound in more than a decade But she would have recognized it anywhere There was the smell of burning hair And her gaze whipped towards Solomon Her friend had risen to his feet And Rachel cried out in alarm

Solomon, no!

You will not speak to her like that Not you, Grandmother, nor any of the rest of you A threat against my blood is a threat against me, and we all know what happens when I feel threatened. Enough! Haman Locke's fist slammed down on the table like a thunderclap, and the room fell silent. He directed his will towards his son, and Solomon toppled back into his chair. For a brief heart-stopping moment, Rachel thought he might be dead. Then his head swung limply to his shoulder, and a soft snore burbled forth. With relief, she realized his father had simply put him to sleep. Silence fell over the gathering, and Haman allowed the moment to drag on long enough for the tension in the air to rise. When he spoke again, the patience in his voice was as cold and sharp as the blade of a knife.

I understand that we are all under a tremendous amount of stress at the moment, and emotions are running high. Haman?

Haman held up a hand to forestall her, and to Rachel's surprise, the old woman subsided, though she leveled a poisonous glare at her son as she sunk back into her chair. You've said more than enough for one night, Mother.

Miss Harlow, I apologize for how rudely you've been treated at our table. I assure you, any decision made about your inclusion in this family will not come from a place of such... emotion.

Well said, brother. You're more than capable of making this decision on your own. Haman favored his brother with a thin smile laced with something like contempt.

While I appreciate your vote of confidence, Bonaparte, I don't feel that's wise. Particularly under these trying circumstances. While Miss Harlow is quite charming, what's required here is a more objective assessment of her worthiness. On the morrow, after we lay our brother to rest, we will convene in the classroom downstairs. This family has relied upon the arbiter to evaluate the potential of all its children. I will trust its judgment in this matter as well.

Rachel glanced at Bonaparte and saw that his face had gone pale. Catching her gaze, he mustered up a reassuring smile and nodded at Haman. Ah, the Arbiter. Yes, of course. A fine idea. Can't believe we didn't think of that before. In spite of his words, Rachel couldn't help but notice that all trace of the man's usual confidence was absent. Her stomach twisted with unease. A servant discreetly brought smelling salts to rouse Solomon along with the first course, and dinner proceeded as planned, though the remainder of the evening passed in an excruciating, near-total silence. Rachel hoped for the opportunity to question Solomon or Bonaparte about this new evaluation Haman had proposed for her, but in this she was disappointed. Bonaparte assigned a member of the security staff to see her to a guest room that had been prepared for her and the two of them bid her a hasty good night with the excuse they had matters to discuss before the funeral of Solomon's uncle Brutus the following morning. Rachel could hardly argue with that. The manners that had been ingrained in her at Granny Ambergy's farm held that a family's privacy must by all means be respected in a time of mourning. So she allowed herself to be shown to an opulent room in the lodge, the smaller sister mansion to Pendaren located some ways behind the main house and locked the door behind her. Once she had a moment to herself, Rachel discovered she was exhausted and it was all she could do to wash up and change into a nightgown before she collapsed into the plush four-poster bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

When the fire dies down And the woods go quiet And you think you've told every tale you know And the old flame blooms To reshape the darkness So you lock your eyes on the trembling glow The faces you find are so familiar They could almost speak Their stories fall where the light won't reach And you can feed the fire to curse the darkness When the voices call But in the end Long shadows Fall

The morning of Brutus' funeral dawned cool and dismal, the sky heavy with the weight of leaden gray clouds that promised rain. Heyman Locke had told the funeral director that no expense was to be spared and left the arrangement in his mother's capable hands, and she did not disappoint. Brutus's casket was carried home to Pendaren in a silver Rolls-Royce funeral coach. Lilies and white roses draped in gray and black silk ribbons had flown in from all over the country and filled the non-denominational chapel where the service would be held. An oil portrait of Heyman's half-brother in a gilt frame rested on an easel near a gleaming casket of mahogany chased in silver, polished within an inch of its life by the fastidious mortuary staff. The service was well attended, as expected. Limousines lined the narrow drive that led on to the estate, varying captains of industry, politicos, A-list actors, and other luminaries to pay their respects to one of the most powerful men on the eastern seaboard. Conrad Barrow himself, heir apparent to the Barrow family, with whom Jameson Locke had allied his family to form the Barrow and Locke mining combine, had arrived. accompanied by his ever-present personal bodyguard, the cadaverous Marcus Trench, to express his family's condolences and offer his personal support in this trying time. The snake, Heyman thought. If the Barrows believed this an opportune moment to attempt to wrest greater control of Barrow and Locke from his hands, they had gravely misread the situation. But he shook Conrad's hand and said how much he appreciated the man taking time from his no-doubt busy schedule to come and convey his respects. Haman scanned the growing crowd as Barrow and Trench gave way to a gaggle of fawning sycophants from the home office, whose hands he shook with an appropriately sad, if distracted, smile. Patience stood near Brutus's coffin, leaning on Bonaparte's arm for support, though Haman suspected her weak knees owed more to a strong draft of one of Nana's concoctions to settle her nerves than to grieve. His son Solomon had posted up near the entrance where he dutifully acted as greeter, shaking hands and accepting condolences as mourners filed into the space. Rachel Harlow stood quietly at his side, clad in an appropriately conservative black suit and veiled hat, occasionally giving his arm a gentle squeeze. Haman had wondered if Calliope might finally make an appearance, but there was no sign of the grieving widow. Something nagged at the edge of Heyman's senses, an itching sensation on the back of his neck. He felt almost as if he were being watched. To be fair, on this occasion, many eyes were certainly upon him,

competitors and industry gossips sizing him up for the slightest hint of impropriety, any flicker of emotion that might betray a family secret or hint at weakness. Yet that was nothing new. He swam with sharks and knew better than to allow the other predators to get a whiff of blood in the water. No, this was something else. There, across the room towards the back of the crowd, a man he didn't recognize dressed in an impeccable gray suit. No doubt...

an attempt to curry favor with the family by wearing their colors, was staring at him with piercing dark eyes. The expression in them, amused? Heyman's brow furrowed. Who would dare? But then a trio of tall, slender women in old-fashioned gray dresses stepped into his line of sight, offering condolences in a weird, stilted fashion, finishing one another's sentences as if they were of one mind. And by the time he had shaken their hands and the line had moved on, the man was gone. Heyman scanned the crowd again but could catch no sign of him. Though that uneasy feeling of being observed lingered. He considered sending one of the security staff to search for the stranger but the glimpse he'd caught of him had been so brief he could barely offer any description. And then everyone was taking their seats and it was time for him to deliver the eulogy and by the time the service was over he had all but forgotten about the incident. Some hours later, once the endless parade of speeches eulogizing the second son of Jameson Locke were concluded, and the massive casket had been lowered beneath the dark earth and into the vaults of the family mausoleum in a far more private ceremony, the remaining members of the family began to gather in the antechamber outside the room known as the Furnace. Rachel and Solomon were the first to arrive, waiting nervously for the others to freshen up and join them.

Wait, explain this to me again. I'm to be judged by what?

It's called the Arbiter. It's a construct built from desecrated flesh and repurposed machinery. It serves as a conduit for a being sent from the masters. It's been with the family for longer than my grandfather has been gone. It's helped me with my gifts a lot, But, Rach, it is not kind. It is not merciful. And my father will take its word as law.

So, if it doesn't think I'm a fit for the family...

I'm not saying I think that's what's going to happen. From what it told me the last time I was down there, it sees me producing an heir as the best use of my potential. So, marrying you and starting a family falls right in line with that. I'm prepared to speak for you if I'm allowed, but the best advice I have is just be you. Don't try to hide anything or put on any airs, because you can't. It sees everything. It knows everything. At least as far as I can tell. Solomon and Rachel glanced toward the door as Bonaparte Locke slid into the room. The man looked pale. His usual white overcoat set aside in favor of a dark smoke-gray suit more appropriate to the day's somber occasion. Patience was on his arm, her huge eyes roving over the dark stone hallway. She seemed to be muttering to herself, then leaned in to whisper something to Bonaparte. Never liked it down here. Never. Cold. Dreary. I always hated coming down here to drop you and Heyman off with that... that thing I could have taught you. if our father would have just listened to me. Solomon could read the worry etched into his uncle's face as he cast a sideways glance at his sister, then watched it vanish as he caught sight of the pair of young people. Bonaparte's expression morphed smoothly into a more subdued version of the gregarious persona that he presented to the world. Ah, Miss Harlow, nephew, your father hasn't arrived yet. He and Grandmother were discussing something with the funeral director. They should be along any time now. Bonaparte winced slightly, probably settling the bill, which means he'll be in a fine mood by the time he gets here. Well, we play the hand of Waddell, don't we? Miss Hollow, I'm sorry the matter has become so complicated. No matter what happens next, you have my undying admiration for your poise and courage under such bleak circumstances. Rachel nodded and smiled weakly. She wasn't sure what to say. Uncle Boney reminded her of a store manager telling her that they weren't hiring, but he'd keep her resume on file and be in touch if a position opened up. Rachel doubted she'd be in touch with anybody if this arbiter didn't render its judgment in her favor. Her train of thought was interrupted by the clicking of expensive high heels on the stone floor as Heyman, Locke, and his mother bustled into the antechamber. Rachel overheard snatches of their conversation as they approached, and as Bonaparte had predicted, they appeared displeased by the invoice they'd received from the funeral home. Noticing the others waiting, the pair lapsed into abrupt silence. Heyman nodded to Bonaparte. Bonaparte returned the gesture and laid his left hand on the double doors that led into the furnace. There was a cloud.

clanking and turning of gears as its multitude of locks opened at his touch. There was a brief pause, and the doors swung open. As they stepped into the room, Bonaparte turned to address them, walking backwards into the depths of the space. Welcome, everyone. A brief introduction for the benefit of Miss Harlow and those of us who may not have visited this chamber in some time. The arbiter can be a bit off-putting, but rest assured, it cannot escape the iron circle. Should the impossible happen and the construct breach it, there are fail-safe wards beyond that for everyone's protection. Miss Hollow, please conduct yourself with the respect to do a being that is likely more powerful than any you have ever encountered. Bonaparte stepped forward, aware of the eyes of the great serpents of the Locke clan upon him, waiting to see if his play would come to fruition or die on the vine. He waved a hand at the stone braziers, and the blue flames flared briefly to life. Just as quickly, however, they sputtered out. Do not play with me, slave. You will come when I call. Bonaparte refocused his will and called again for the ghostly fire that sparked unnatural life in the construct. This time, the flames shot high into the air. twin beacons of pale blue before abruptly snuffing out.

Is there a problem, Bonaparte? Do you need a little help rousing the old boy?

Heyman snickered and Bonaparte began to sweat. Could the entity that spoke through the corpse's desiccated lips actually defy them? It had been gifted to their family as an aid to help assure their rise to power. Why would the master's ambassador abandon them now? A cold shiver of dread kindled in his chest as he remembered the thing's words,

The one who summoned and bound me here has disappeared down the iron row.

Wiping his damp palms on his trousers, Bonaparte focused and tried again, but the braziers remained cold and still. Before anyone else could speak, the door at the south end of the chamber slammed shut and its many locking mechanisms began whirring and clicking back into place. The room filled with a heavy, tense silence, and then a booming voice seemed to come from all around them.

I'm afraid the Arbiter is unavailable to take your call at the moment. If you like, I can take a message and have it get back to you at a later date.

Members of the locked security team detached from their posts along the wall to encircle the family, poised to head off any incoming threats. When the voice came again, its source was clear. It had issued from the direction of the iron circle that normally contained the Arbiter.

I really love what you've done with the place. The whole secret dungeon under the family estate bit. One never tires of the classics. Brutus certainly didn't lie, though. Your old man really laid it on thick when he built this place. All of this splendor and majesty for the love of his life. Dear Annabella, he must have really treasured her. I don't envy the woman who tried to fill her shoes. Oh, hi there, Marley. It's been a while.

Marlena Locke flushed at the sound of her girlhood nickname. Though Haman couldn't tell whether it was embarrassment or rage that colored his mother's cheeks, the color drained away again as a man dressed in a bespoke charcoal gray suit stepped from behind the inert form of the arbiter and winked. Haman's mother stared at the man as if he were her long-lost husband, returned at last. Her expression was both terrified and absolutely besotted. It was Bonaparte who stepped forward to confront the stranger.

Who the devil are you? How did you get in here?

Marlena turned terrified eyes on her stepson.

Bonaparte, don't. Can't you see? It's him. It.

That's right, boy. Look upon me. See me. If that monkey brain of yours can comprehend who and what I am.

the man seemed to flicker where there stood a handsome well-dressed gentleman there was only a gaping hole in the air an inky window into some other place or time within the twisting shadows lay a stretch of track made not of wood and good iron but of flesh and bone and the faces

of the dead. They were screaming, begging for release as their spectral forms stretched torturously into the distance. A young woman's voice begged to be left alone as locusts buzzed nearby. The scene faded, and the void became instead an immense tunnel that seemed to swallow the whole of the room. Prisoners, or perhaps slaves, hacked away at the walls and floor as that their lives depended on it. Men on horseback with guns and bullwhips drove them without mercy. There was a deafening crack and a huge slab of rock fell from above them. A man incongruously dressed for office work was miraculously snatched aside as a chunk of rock the size of a bank vault crushed two older men to a pulp. The tunnel shook, seemed to cave in on itself and disappear. There was the sound of a distant train whistle and now a soot-black spike of an engine raced down the portal. Flames leaping from the track as it sped into the great beyond. Patience began to weep. Father! Father, come back! Take me with you, please! Bonaparte gripped her arm, concerned she might attempt to leap into the void after the train. As it vanished into the darkness, the charcoal-clad stranger reappeared in its place.

As to your second question, I am here at the behest of your older brother. Brutus Locke opened his home and hearth to me, so that I might render him a boon.

The cost was high, but the man paid it gladly. The man from the railroad held his palms up, and for a heartbeat, they appeared to be drenched to the wrists in dripping gore. gore. Then the moment passed and the man and his suit were again spotless. My stepson is

dead. All invitations he might have issued are null and void. You have no right to be

here. Your grasp of the old compacts never was very firm, was it, Marley? Brutus may be dead. But while a member of his household still lives, I am entitled to guest right under your roof. But don't worry, old girl. This shouldn't take long.

Calliope is alive, then.

That is none of your concern. The affairs of your brother's household need not trouble your poisoned little mind ever

again. This is ridiculous. You barge into our home with our brother's blood on your hands and call yourself a guest? It's an insult. And what have you done to the Arbiter? To claim guest right, you have to accept its obligations, one of which is not destroying your host's property. And that construct belongs to us.

I think that's the question we need to ask you, Uncle Boney. What have you done with the Arbiter? You, witless apes, were foolhardy enough to pledge yourselves to the things that sleep beneath the mountains. Beings of insatiable, undying hunger that will undoubtedly grind your bones to make their bread. And this is how you use the boons you're granted. They break a piece of themselves off and give it to your dear papa So that it might teach you empty-headed parasites how to free them from their tomb And what do you do with it? Chain it up in the basement and talk to it like a dog Use it as a babysitter For the larvae you neglect to build up your pitiful little empire on the rails rails. My rails. They gift you a font of dark wisdom and power, and you build a cage

for it. Typical. My father commissioned the Arbiter himself. He knew it would need a conduit to speak through. It was built to serve our family, and so it has.

Hmm Your father The great man himself Where is he, do you think? Out there wandering the underbelly of the world in his dark rider I wonder if he's found his true terminus yet You think he got there and just

rolled on through? Or maybe he'd gotten as sick of you puling brats as I have. Perhaps he hit that last station and just kept on going, looking for some peace and fucking quiet on the other side. Or maybe your masters gobbled him up and just didn't

bother telling any of you. Solomon Locke had had quite enough of the sneering stranger. Of his condescension and insinuations, he stepped forward to confront the man in the charcoal suit. Blasphemer! You will not speak of my family that way! Not in my house, sir! Security! Solomon, no! What happened next would be etched into Solomon's memory forever. Four of the security drones swarmed towards the man like bouncers rousting an unruly bar patron. Two approached the man head-on while the others flanked the stranger from either side. The man and charcoal raised a single hand, and the four nearly identical men slammed together as if drawn by a powerful magnet, heads cracking and bones snapping as their limbs tangled under the vicious impact. The man from the railroad twisted his hand as if plucking a particularly ripe peach from a tree and then clenched it shut. There was the sound of metal tearing through flesh as copper wire and razor-sharp gears burst from each drone's chest cavity and began burrowing into the flesh of the man nearest him. The force that had joined them continued to grind the men into one another. One drone's eyes trembled before erupting from their sockets, the insulated wire that had held them in place tearing into another's throat, Bands of bloody iron marked with sigils tore free of the eyeless man's stomach, puncturing the skin of his squad mates like daggers. Somewhere in the mass of writhing bodies, someone began to vomit an orangish, frothing fluid that began melting the flesh from the men's bones. The drone screamed and clicked and whirred. The beast of spike and rail watched for a long moment with apparent glee. Finally, he flashed his open hands and made a gesture as if dusting them clean The mangled drones collapsed to the floor with a sick splat Melted tissue fusing them into a horrific mass of sludge and spare parts The stench of grease, curdled blood and burnt flesh hung thick in the air There was an occasional twitch accompanied by a spark of electricity until at long last the members of the locked security team fell still and silent. The architect of this slaughter turned his eyes on the pair of young people at the center of the gathering and grinned.

Temper, temper, young Solomon. See, Miss Hollow, perfectly willing to let other people die just because I said mean things about his family. I tried to warn you. Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't run at me himself, so his big, scary friends could come test their mettle. But you're not that brave, are you, little Jojo?

Solomon reached for his gift, ready to call upon his guardians and wipe the smugness from the stranger's face, but there was... nothing. For the first time in his life, he couldn't seem to find the door that would let them into this world. He frowned and began gathering power again, but Rachel grasped his arm, her grip like iron.

Jonah! Solomon! Don't! He's just trying to goad you. Don't let him get under your skin.

The man in the charcoal suit knelt to examine the ruined forms of the security team. Their commingled bodies bleeding out over the polished floor.

Jameson always appreciated the power of the rail. Always trying to find ways to mix the darkness he was gifted with the Iron Road. He'd break pieces of it off and use it to craft things like your little mechanized men here. Flesh and blood stitched together with copper and steel. your world intermingling with mine. These pitiful automatons are a cute party trick, but where old Jameson really shined is in building things like this. The mayor...

The man from the railroad turned and gestured expansively at the lifeless form of the Arbiter. He circled the silent cadaver like a patron of the arts, admiring a sculpture he'd commissioned.

The husk of a green-touched man, emptied out and reinforced with parts from decommissioned trains. There are bits and pieces of at least a dozen different models woven into the tissue here. The engines that pump the blood and the breath for this poor thing still have their reporting marks. The great iron circle that keeps the binding secure is a repurposed driver's wheel from a train that rode my rails for over 25 years before it found its way into the hands of Jameson Locke. Even the sigils etched onto it are in my native tongue. That's a Stevenson's gear there. You can see the bell crank and retrot if you squint just right. Yes. Your father wanted nothing more than to harness the power of the Iron Road. But what he and others like him failed to understand, and what you rats have failed to remember, is that I am the Iron Road. You know, when I first thought of coming here, I thought it would be to teach you a lesson. Something to make sure you never, ever forget your place in this world again. Then I realized your father's sponsors had already given you a teacher. A teacher who could impart the material far more eloquently than I. If only it weren't constrained by your father's will and pieces of my railroad. quote, most people don't know this about me, but I am a firm believer that everyone deserves a proper education. So allow me to facilitate yours by removing my part of your barrier to learning.

He bent down and rubbed his finger over the iron ring behind the arbiter's still unmoving form, The ridges of his fingertips scrubbing away the binding rune stamped there He slipped the grease smudged finger into his mouth and tasted His expression one of rapture as he opened his eyes and stood He turned his hands, palms up Fingers crooked upwards as if pulling against an unseen resistance And cracks began to form in the slate floor Radiating out from the iron ring and disrupting the wards carved into the stone sparks flew as the wards exploded like overheated light bulbs and the ground beneath their feet began to shake. Rachel Harlow's one-time cabin mate grinned as the power behind the circle's binding flickered and gave way. Then he ripped the repurposed driver wheel from the floor. With a flourish those ancient hands twisted the perfect circle of gold iron into a heap of molten slag that he tossed at Haman's feet, for it landed with a discordant clang on the quivering stone. Somewhere, with an empty socket left behind, a great wind began to howl.

Class is in session, children. I do hope you find today's lesson instructive.

There was the sound of grinding stone from the depths of the hole, and soot began to bellow from within it. obscuring both the man from the railroad in the suit of gears and flesh that served as the Arbiter's body on this plane. When the smoke cleared, the man in the charcoal suit was gone. But the Arbiter remained. It was no longer still. Avid, hungry eyes stared out at them from the desiccated face, which almost seemed alive with malice. There was no pumping of air, nor inflation of the makeshift lungs, and for a long moment everyone stared at it in stunned silence. Without warning, the thing spread its mouth in a wide, hellish grin and roar. A pulsing orange light illuminated its face as if it were on fire. A towering pillar of shadow and soot billowed from the depths, Stripping the flesh from the arbiter's frame of bones and steel A hulking amorphous shape moved within the cloud of darkness The shadows of wings, gnashing mouths, and immense tentacles Drifted through the infernal bloom Left the horrors dwelling at the bottom of the sea Slow, languid, and dark

Utterly unnatural to beings born on land. As it drifted forward, the secondary wards engaged, casting a blue glow wherever the cloud of devouring darkness met old magic.

You wish to learn, little monkeys? You wish to know the wisdom I can impart to you? Come closer, you wretched leeches, you bottom-feeding, shit-sucking vermin. I will show you the world and more. Such knowledge you will gain within my embrace. Come closer.

The walls shook and the ceiling rippled and cracked. Dust and crumbled stone rained down from above. Haman Locke grabbed his bodyguard and yelled over the cacophony,

Donovan, get my mother to safety. We'll get this thing back in its box. Go, now! Heyman, no! Not another word, Mother. Go with Donovan. He'll keep you safe, if he wants to keep breathing.

Marlena Locke slipped from Donovan's grasp and pulled her son close.

Heyman, come with me. Let that thing have the rest of them. Then it'll just be us. Think about it, son. There will be no one left to oppose us. It will clear the path to ascension.

I said go, mother. I will not abandon my son. And I will not abandon mine. Bonaparte and Solomon can't handle this alone. Impatience is useless. If we can't bind it, I don't think there will be anything left of this family to ascend. I love you, mother. Now go. Donovan, take her. Haman.

Haman turned back to the crisis at hand as Donovan all but carried his mother from the room the shape of some great beast with the head of a bull crowned in a dozen horns its face a mass of eyes emerged from the roiling shadows and seemed to gather itself with a bellow the being they had once called the Arbiter threw itself against the secondary wards again the walls rumbled beneath the onslaught and the doorway through which Marlena and Donovan had disappeared. Collapsed with a thunderous crash. Aemon cried out in despair. He wanted to run after them, to ensure she made it out safely, but he couldn't allow himself to think about that now. Everything he had built was at stake, and survival was his watchword. In the most commanding voice he could manage, he called out, Bonaparte, Solomon, form up on me. Miss Harlow, it would be

wise for you in patience to find a place to take cover. Rachel Harlow shook her head and stripped

off her gloves and picked up a piece of crumbled stone from the floor, letting it dissolve and

sift through her fingers as dust. With all due respect, Mr. Locke, if I'm to be part of this family, then it's my duty to stand by it. I'll be fine. I admire your courage, dear girl, but I don't

think that is something you can lay hands on. As if to prove Bonaparte's point, the cloud of ever-shifting darkness flickered with orange lightning as a single monstrous mouth formed within its depths, opening to unfurl a hideous tongue covered in legions of eyes. The appendage licked at the invisible barrier, questing and tasting. The war flickered. He's right, Rage. At least get behind me. While the three men argued with Rachel, Patience had begun drifting back toward the main doors. Heyman shouted as he caught sight of her. Patience, get back here. Patience, stay close. We need to stay together. What would be the point? This isn't a family anymore. I have to do this by myself.

You stupid cow! That door is sealed. That creature Brutus Summoned has left us trapped.

Patience Locke regarded her youngest brother as if seeing him for the first time, though in truth she had seen him, had seen through him, for years. Hainan thought her a useless spinster who would never marry, or a wailing zealot worshiping the memory of their father trapped in the prison of her own broken mind. It was long past time to strip away the illusion of his own superiority so that he too could truly see and see the woman who had been before him all along. There is no door in my father's house that is close to me, you twisted little maggot. Those who walk the path the masters have ordained shall find no door locked, no way barred. I am our father's eldest child. His first pupil, his words, and his will flow through my veins in ways you will never understand.

Understand. The days of you walking these halls with my brother's blood on your hands are at an end.

What? I had nothing to do with Brutus' death. You heard that thing. Brutus fed himself to the beast of Spike and Rail to strike at me.

I'm not talking about Brutus. Though your foul mouth is unworthy of holding his name, Brutus did the one thing for this family that you would never... He died for it. I'm talking about our other brother. You killed Mordecai. You killed Solomon's father. I am Solomon's father, you lunatic. You know, I think after all this time, you might even believe that yourself. Your primary gift is being able to make people believe, to fawn, to worship you like you were Christ on the cross. That ends today. Before Heyman could say another word, Patience reached out and gripped him by the neck with her left hand, her thumb hooking under his chin as if to pull his mouth open. Her eyes unfocused as she engaged just one of the many skills she'd learned under her father's tutelage. It's time for the boy to know the truth, Heyman. All of it. Bonaparte stepped forward to intervene. What are you? Patience turned her cloudy gaze upon her youngest sibling and he froze. Unable to move or speak. Shush now, little brother. Patience turned her attention back to Haman, the fingers of her mind clawing at the edges of his psychic defenses.

You wretched bitch!

You can't just... Oh, I can. And I will. I have to do it, Haman. I was supposed to stand with my brothers and take this family back. But they're gone. And I have to do it by myself. Heyman Locke was an especially talented man. His natural gift for swaying large numbers of people, including his own family, perfectly suited to the task of helming the Locke empire, both on the rails and in the unseen world. The ambitions of his mother had combined with his own rapacious mind to hone him into a truly dangerous instrument. Patience had to work for her gifts. had to follow in the dread footsteps of her father as he forged a path into the dark. And Patience had never questioned, never needed to. She knew her father knew the way to something beyond mortal existence, and she worked hard to make him proud. She protected her own mother from fully understanding what the man she loved had become. She strove to protect Mordecai and Brutus when they were children, paving the way in her studies so the horrible things she had done might not be required of them as they ascended to their glorious reward. But there is no safe passage through the inner dark, and patience had watched them grow into hardened men with more power at their fingertips than they knew what to do with. They schemed and plotted and murdered and enslaved, and in the end their hearts were as black as the train that had carried their father away. She'd failed to protect anyone. Her mother died giving birth to Bonaparte, and then her father met Marlena. Then came Haman. She had retreated into her books, pouring over her father's teachings, and she grew strong. Far stronger than anyone ever realized. Thus, with only the slightest exertion, she peeled away Heyman's mental defenses like a clementine on Christmas morning. He could not hide his thoughts, nor even breathe, unless she willed it now. She scooped up his fragile little mind in her hands and offered it to her nephew like a warm buttered biscuit. Go ahead, nephew. Look into your father's mind and see for yourself. He can hide nothing from you now. And patience, that thing's gonna... Nephew? Yes, there's a very good chance that thing is going to kill us all, so why not die knowing the truth? The pursuit of knowledge is a hard road that often leads to salvation. The Grand Manifest Mantras and Affirmations, Chapter 2 The fervor in his aunt's eyes was almost as frightening as the beast that raged inside the crumbling wards. So Solomon looked, and Solomon saw. In an instant, the truth was laid bare before him. Haman had lusted after his brother's wife, Delilah.

Delilah had been no saint, of course, like the rest of the family. She was a conniving, power-hungry woman, not to mention a gifted servant of the dark herself, and she shared his lust for power. She had agreed to Haman's original plan, which included murdering his wife and her husband and bearing Haman a child who would become the master of doors and keeper of ways foretold by the grandmothers.

manifest. They would time her pregnancy so that each of their respective spouses was already in the ground. They would be free to marry before it became necessary to acknowledge her condition. The timing would be somewhat scandalous, but all would be forgotten when they produced the child who would insure their seats at the right hand of the masters. Their affair had lasted a full year and a day, and Haman had failed to get her with child. So she ended it. Haman attempted to wipe her memory, but Delilah had already confessed her infidelity to her husband and begged his forgiveness. Mordecai Locke was not a man to be trifled with in those days. Haman had neither the power nor the social capital to challenge him within the family. The matter was buried, but not forgotten. When Delilah did become pregnant, it was long past the end of her affair with Haman. When Solomon was born with gifts unlike any the family had yet produced, It was Haman who suggested sending him to the barrows to see if they could help bind his gifts until he was older. While Solomon was in the care of the family's allies, Haman moved on Mordecai. Sending an assassin to catch him unawares while he was traveling, Mordecai was drugged and beaten and stabbed and finally drowned in Lake Michigan. Delilah was found dead in the home they had shared a month later, at the bottom of the cellar stairs, a victim of what had appeared to be a tragic accident. Heyman had thought himself very clever, resorting to outright murder for hire rather than the elaborate games of cat and mouse that were so common within the family business. Heyman had planned to play the part of the dutiful, loving uncle adopting his poor orphan nephew once the child returned from his visit with the Barrows. He could not have foreseen that their allies would be such incompetent babysitters, however, and Solomon had spent years on a backwater farm in Kentucky under the care of a green-touched woman whose art had prevented his family from finding him. When Solomon returned at last, Haman had reverted to the original plan, presuming that the only others who knew the details of his affair with Delilah were long dead. He confessed to the indiscretion and claimed Solomon and the power the boy wielded as his own. Solomon staggered with shock and grief. Ten long years after he believed he had finally found his people, It turned out the man who had claimed him, taken pride in him, raised him to be his heir, had been no better than Granny Ambergy. Just another liar. Unlike Granny, this man, this bitter, jealous little snake, had killed his true parents. He locked eyes with Haman and could see the fear reflected there. Haman knew that he knew. Why couldn't anybody just tell him the truth? He could have loved Haman as an uncle.

Would have been no less loyal to the man who took him in after he spent his life wondering who he was and where he'd come from. The Arbiter smashed into the wards again, and the world shuddered. The barrier flickered. I know you are angry, nephew, but I need you to hear me. I can get us out of this chamber. You and the girl can come with me and learn the truth of your grandfather's vision for this family, or you can stay here and face the Arbiter's wrath with your uncles. There is no time to waste. Follow me if you wish to live. Patience released Heyman's jaw and strode purposefully toward the main doors of the chamber. At her touch, the sound of gears clicking and whirring echoed across the room, and the door swung open. Solomon looked at the man he had thought was his father and found he had nothing to say to him. He shook his head and turned to Rachel Harlow, who took his hand and squeezed.

Let's get out of here, Jojo.

Solomon nodded, looking down at their joined hands and in spite of Marlena's dire prediction, her touch neither burned nor harmed him in any way. He smiled, and the two of them hurried after his aunt.

She's lying, son! It's all a trick! She planted those thoughts for you to see! Solomon! Solomon, come back here! You ungrateful!

But Solomon didn't answer. He and Rachel followed Patience through the open door and disappeared from sight. Beside him, Bonaparte gasped, sucking in a breath as the binding Patience had placed upon him dissolved. The wards flickered again as the being their father had imprisoned there strained against them, and Bonaparte eyed them nervously. His voice dripped with venom as he turned to his younger sibling. What now, brother? You wanted to leave this family? What do you suggest we do? Haman was too busy watching his world crumble around him like the walls of this great chamber to even fashion a response.

Then the wards flickered and died, and the darkness swallowed them both.

Well, hey there, family. We hope you've enjoyed the second story arc of season six of Old Gods of Appalachia, Long Shadows. Old Jameson Locke sure cast one hell of a shadow over his descendants, didn't he? Not to mention everybody's favorite man from the railroad. Well, now comes a time where we take a little break between one story arc and the next while we plot and plan and get the next tale ready to unleash upon y'all. You can expect episode 104 to descend upon your feeds on July 30th, 2026. So it won't be long family. Not long at all. If you just can't wait to hear more of our stories, you can always head on over and join the family in the holler, our subscription service where you can not only listen to new episodes a day early and ad free, but hear exclusive stories available nowhere else. Stories like build mama a coffin, black mouth dog, unhallowed grounds, and many, many more. Just head on over to oldgodsofapalachia.com slash theholler to sign up today. Now, if you prefer a more tangible expression of your devotion, our merch shop has t-shirts, shorts, tank tops, and other fine garments, plus mugs, pillows, phone cases, and other fun accessories. Check all that out over at merch.oldgodsofapalachia.com. However you choose to support the show family, whether it's with your hard-on dollar, telling your friends, or just tuning in every other week, Cam and I want you to know we appreciate each and every one of y'all. and this is your did you folks really think we wouldn't still leave you with a whole bushel of unanswered questions about the lock family reminder that old gods of appalachia is a production of beat nerd media and is distributed by rusty quill today's story was written by steve shell and cam collins our intro music is by brother landon blood and that kick and outro music you hear is by none other than jacob danielson more the voice of hayman lock is alex mcdonald virial the voice of marlena lock is glenna grant the voice of adult rachel harlow is Dax Dupuis, and of course, the voice of the railroad man is Uri Lowenthal. Talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon.

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